Greene glanced at Kennicott, then back at Hodgson. The room became still and silent.
“I’m guilty.”
44
Parish felt paralyzed with fear, anger, confusion.
She’d lost track of how long she’d been sitting on the floor of her office reading Melissa’s notebook. The way she used to sit on the floor of her bedroom when she was a young girl and read Nancy Drew mystery books one after another for hours and hours.
Everything Melissa had written to Parish in the last few years—all her texts and email letters—had been disjointed and paranoid, but here in her secret book Parish could see the work of the brilliant lawyer Melissa had once been.
She’d done an exhaustive study of the problem of homelessness in the city. It started back in the 1960s when the federal government poured money into housing projects both downtown and in the suburbs, creating ghettoized communities that featured circular roads that kept through traffic out and the poor people in. No surprise, in time they became major crime centres. And even worse, over the years as the buildings decayed, there was never substantial funding to keep them in good repair.
Next Melissa outlined in detail the lack of basic facilities for poor people in the city: transportation, parks, and decent schools. Then she charted the city’s rapid expansion in the next decades, the influx of immigrants from all over the world, and indigenous Canadians drawn to Toronto. And how, at the same time, the federal government retreated from its commitment to public housing and the provincial government downloaded the cost of housing and welfare onto the city. The drip, drip, drip of decay.
In the next chapters she wrote about the closing of mental-health facilities and the broken promise of providing services for the most needy and mentally ill in the community. Then came the drugs. The crack cocaine, the heroin, and finally the fentanyl, all while the public housing, which had been poorly built decades earlier, was falling apart as the waiting list for apartments grew exponentially longer. And now the massive building boom and skyrocketing rents were forcing anyone marginal who ran into some bad luck out onto the street.
Parish was transfixed. Melissa had written this all out by hand, in her meticulous handwriting. She must have done hours and hours of research.
The next section was an extensive review of the homeless problem in other countries. The overrun streets of San Francisco. The tent city outside the Prado Museum in Madrid. And a long section on Finland, the only European country that had had success with the problem. Why? Because as soon as someone was identified as homeless, that person was provided with a decent place to live and support
There was a chart. Melissa loved charts. This one analyzed the true cost of homelessness. An emergency hospital visit even for a simple matter cost the government a thousand dollars. She had stats on the cost of running shelters, social workers, food, criminal charges for petty crimes. To say nothing of the human cost. It went on and on for pages, building a brilliant argument that putting money into housing, instead of relief and support programs, was a large long-term financial saving.
As Parish got near the end of the book, Melissa’s handwriting changed. Her penmanship was no longer precise and clean but erratic. A new chapter was headed: “Who Profits?: Homelessness is a Money-Making Machine!”
She pointed her finger at the social workers and shelter workers who had good jobs, at the drug counsellors and therapists who had a constant supply of patients, and at the doctors who ran homeless drug addicts through their offices on ten-minute weekly visits. But most of her anger was directed at the pharmaceutical companies. They had an endless lineup of customers who needed their product and governments only too happy to pay their bills to keep the homeless out of sight.
“Everyone wins, everyone makes money!!!” she’d written. “Except the people who needed help!!!!”
Parish turned the page. Melissa had written a new heading in capital letters. “TWO MURDERS: J’ACCUSE” It was dated yesterday.
Parish read on transfixed. Melissa had laid out in precise detail, as if it were a well-argued lawyer’s brief, the case against the person who she claimed was the killer. Her conclusion was devastating.
Parish exhaled and slammed the book shut.
She didn’t believe it. Or didn’t want to believe it. Really, could it be?
45
Greene kept his eyes fixed on Hodgson. He looked much too relaxed for a man about to confess to murder. Perhaps three murders.
“Your suspicion about me was right, Detective Greene,” Hodgson said. “I was the one who struck Jember Roshan on Sunday morning when he was riding his bike to work at the club. It was dark, and I didn’t see him. I had no idea I’d hit him until you came to my office and showed me the picture of the damage to my car.”
Hodgson never looked at Cutter for direction but kept his eyes trained on Greene. He didn’t have a hint of his usual arrogance or bravado. And his hood was still up, as if he were hiding his real personality underneath it.
Greene felt like he was playing along in a drama that Hodgson and Cutter had scripted out for themselves without telling him his part.
“I’ll make arrangements with Mr. Roshan to reimburse him for the damage to his bicycle,” Hodgson said.
“I’m sure he’ll appreciate that.”
“And I’ll pay for any physical therapy he needs.”
“And I’ll pass your confession along to the division that handles traffic violations,” Greene said, “and let them decide if there will be charges.”
They were sparring, like boxers waiting for the opponent to make the first move so they could counterpunch. Everyone in the room knew that Hodgson hadn’t come in with his lawyer early this morning to talk about a possible highway traffic act violation.
Greene reached for his tape recorder. “If that is all, I’ll conclude this interview.”
“There’s one more thing,” Hodgson said.
Greene let his hand hover over the recorder.
“I lied to you and Detective Kennicott early this morning when you came to my house and informed me that my ex-wife Melissa had been murdered,” Hodgson said.
“You did?” Greene said, keeping his voice level. He resisted the urge to look at Kennicott. “For the record, at four thirty-five a.m. this morning, Detective Kennicott and I attended at your home and informed you that Melissa was dead. And at that time, you told us the last time you had seen her was many months ago at your daughter’s school play in May of this year. Do you agree?”
“No.”
Greene looked over at Kennicott.
“Detective Kennicott,” he said. “Can you confirm that we had that discussion with Mr. Hodgson?”
“Yes, we did,” Kennicott said.
Greene was getting angry. He looked back at Cutter. “Counsel, we’re not here to play games. We’re investigating three murders in the past week. If your client has information for us, we’d like to hear it, otherwise this interview is over.”
“Hear him out, Detective,” Cutter said. He was nonplussed.
Greene looked at Hodgson. “Let me be clear, you are saying you don’t agree that Detective Kennicott and I attended at your home, and that you made that statement?”
“I agree that you both came to my house, and I made that statement.”
“You did?”
“One hundred per cent.”
“What do you disagree with then?”
Greene glanced at Cutter. The lawyer smiled back at Greene with a smug look on his clean-shaven face that said “Gotcha.” There was something more to come, and Greene had no idea what it was.
“You implied that you spoke to me alone at my house,” Hodgson said. “I was not alone. You informed me in the presence of my wife, Lydia.”
So that was it, Greene thought.
“True. Detective Kennicott and I spoke to you and your wife at the doorway of your home.”
“I lied to all of you,” Hodgson said. “The truth is that I met Melissa last night outs
ide the dining hall. I didn’t want Lydia to know that I had been in touch with my ex. That’s why I lied, and that’s why I’m here now.”
“Unfortunately, my client was not interviewed by the police on his own,” Cutter said, finally speaking up. Greene could see he was already formulating his legal argument in case Hodgson was arrested.
“It was not an interview,” Greene said. “We were informing him at the earliest possible opportunity.”
“Nevertheless it was most unfortunate,” Cutter said. “My client has now attended here voluntarily, because he wants to set the record straight at the earliest opportunity.”
Greene knew Hodgson well from his trial. Usually the man was hyper and animated, but now he was still. With his hood up, he seemed like a priest about to make his own confession.
Greene had to keep his demeanour calm. He turned back to Hodgson. “How did that come about? Your going outside to meet Melissa?”
“I knew she was going to be there, because I invited her.”
“You invited her to the party?”
“Not the party. Not inside. I wanted her to see Britt, and Britt wanted to see her mom. There were a few minutes between the time when Britt snuck out of the party and before the four guys brought her back in on the golf-club chair. I went outside to get Melissa to bring her to the back room. Britt waited for us. Lydia didn’t know anything about this. You know Lydia and Melissa have, well, let’s just say it’s complicated for them.”
Interestingly, Hodgson was still referring to Melissa in the present tense.
“Have you told Lydia about this now?”
“After you two left this morning, I told her what had happened. Then we had to wake up Britt and tell her this horrible news.”
For the first time Hodgson’s calm demeanour changed. He looked upset. Sad.
“What happened when Melissa saw Britt?”
He shook his head. “She never saw her.”
“Why not?”
To Greene’s surprise, Hodgson thrust his body about halfway across the table. He was a big man, and he quickly filled the space between them. In one swift motion he yanked off his hood, pulled off his baseball cap and unzipped his sweatshirt. He was wearing an unbuttoned polo shirt. He pulled the collar down and turned his head to the left then to the right.
There were long, fresh-looking scratch marks on both sides of his neck.
He sat back down.
“When I met her outside, Melissa was totally out of control. I pleaded with her to calm down. She attacked me.”
He pointed to the marks on his neck.
“We tussled. Despite everything, for all those years, Detective Greene, I never once hit Melissa.”
“What happened?”
“I backed away. I promised her I’d arrange for her to see Britt next week. I couldn’t ruin the party for my daughter, and I didn’t want to upset Lydia, so I didn’t tell her.”
“What about the scratch marks? How did you explain them to Lydia?”
“I didn’t. When I went back inside, I went to the bathroom and dried them off as best as I could. I had one of the scarves that we gave out to all the guests, and I used it to cover my neck. Just before Britt was brought back in to the party, I had to tell Britt what happened. She was sad but she understood.”
Greene looked over at Kennicott. They both had the same thought. This story explained his fingerprints on Melissa’s neck. It would take a few days to get the results back, but she probably had his DNA under her fingernails. Kennicott himself was a witness to Hodgson’s spending a lot of time in the bathroom stall. It all fit, perhaps too neatly. Had Hodgson recognized Kennicott and made a point of using him as a partial alibi?
There was one key question left. The timing.
Greene turned to Kennicott. “Detective,” he said, “do you have any questions for Mr. Hodgson?”
This was a way of stalling and giving Kennicott a chance to formulate what he wanted to say.
“I do,” he said. “Do you know what time you went outside to meet Ms. Copeland?”
“It was supposed to be at nine thirty. I got there a few minutes early.”
Kennicott opened the binder in front of him. “We’ve viewed a copy of the video taken at the party last night. I’ve gone through it and made a time chart of everything that took place that night.”
Greene watched Hodgson’s eyes as Kennicott slowly ran his forefinger down the typewritten page. Nice work, taking his time.
Hodgson looked surprised but not concerned.
“At nine twenty people were dancing on the dance floor. You are seen exiting at nine twenty-five and re-entering at nine forty-two.”
“Okay,” Hodgson said, following Kennicott’s finger on the page.
“At nine forty-five Britt is brought in, and the confetti cannon goes off.”
“That sounds right. You can check with the party planner, she had this scheduled right down to the minute.”
“At nine forty-seven the video starts. You are not seen on camera until after it ends at ten oh-three. Where were you at that time?”
For the first time since he’d come to the police station, Hodgson seemed to falter. He glanced over at Cutter, then down at his hands. He wasn’t answering the question.
“Did you go outside again?” Kennicott asked.
Hodgson cast his eyes down. Shook his head. Snuck a look at Cutter.
Cutter nodded, turned to Greene, and pointed at the tape recorder. He brought his finger across his neck, making a cut-it motion.
This was why Cutter had insisted the interview not be videotaped. Greene had anticipated Cutter would do this and told Kennicott in advance to follow his lead. He tapped Kennicott on the shoulder, pointed to the recorder, and Kennicott reached out and turned it off.
Cutter, still pantomiming, pointed to himself, then Greene, then to the door. Greene nodded and stood, as did Cutter. They went into the hallway and Cutter closed the door behind them.
Greene folded his arms across his chest and waited for Cutter to start the conversation.
“Detective, I know you don’t trust me as far as you can spit,” Cutter said.
Greene kept his arms crossed and started tapping his foot.
“We both know that if Karl walks out now, you don’t have enough to arrest him, and you know in your gut that he didn’t kill her.”
“Then why doesn’t he answer the question?”
“He will, but only if you take that recorder off the table.”
“Because?”
“Because it’s personal. Here’s the deal: No recording. No notes. This part of the conversation never happened. Or we walk right now.”
Greene kept tapping his foot. It was personal. What could that mean? Then he figured it out. “Lydia?” he said.
“Yeah,” Cutter said.
“Tell me,” Greene said.
“You’ll hear. He was still supporting Melissa.”
“Financially, emotionally?”
Cutter put his hands up in the air. “Who are we to judge? The postman doesn’t always ring twice, Ari. You of all people don’t want to arrest the wrong man. Do we have a deal?”
“Okay. He needs to answer that last question on tape, then the recorder goes away.”
They walked back in. Cutter sat down and whispered in Hodgson’s ear. When Hodgson was ready, Greene pointed to the recorder and gave Kennicott a thumbs-up. Kennicott turned the recorder back on.
“No, I didn’t go back outside again,” Hodgson said. “I stayed inside at my daughter’s party.”
“Okay, thank you,” Greene said. “That concludes this interview.”
Kennicott reached over again and turned the recorder off. He handed it to Greene, and Greene put it in his briefcase, along with his notebook. Kennicott threw his notebook in too.
Greene looked back at Hodgson. “Let’s hear it,” he said.
Hodgson pulled his hood back and took off his baseball cap. “The video about Britt was fifteen minutes and
twenty-two seconds long. The room was dark and I slipped outside to talk to Melissa again. There was a spot where we used to sit at night when we first met. Look out over the river and talk about all the great things we wanted to do in our lives. She was sitting there. Crying.”
Cutter had bridged his hands and turned his head, looking at Hodgson from the side. Not moving a muscle.
“I sat beside her. I know Melissa better than anyone. When her fury is over, she becomes her old self again. Lydia can never know this, but I’ve been funnelling money to Mel for years. She’s the mother of my daughter. All the times when we were married when she hit me, I never once struck back. I would never have hurt her.”
Greene stole a glance at Kennicott. He was watching Hodgson, transfixed.
“We talked. She was still living in the valley and I pleaded with her to leave. Almost everyone else had. She always loved running her fingers through my hair and she started doing it, picking out pieces of confetti. We laughed. She told me that Britt was lucky to have me. She kissed me. I told her I had to get back. We hugged and both cried a little. That’s the last time I saw her. I can’t believe she’s gone.”
He stopped.
“You don’t want Lydia to know about any of this?” Greene asked him.
“What’s the point? People don’t understand. Melissa and I had such a good life before she became sick.”
For the first time since he’d arrived, Hodgson became animated. Angry.
“She needed help. She didn’t need people telling her how noble it was to be homeless. This whole damn support network. All it did was reinforce her illness, give her a built-in excuse to avoid her real problems.”
This was the real source of Hodgson’s anger at the homeless movement, Greene realized. It was personal. He believed it had betrayed him and the woman he loved.
Hodgson stood, put his baseball cap back on, and flipped his hood back over his head. He turned to Cutter. “I need to go home to see my wife and daughter.”
Greene walked them out. Back in the conference room he sat with Kennicott.
“What do you think?” he asked Kennicott.
Downfall Page 20
